


so we drove on

by kafkas



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (1974)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-25 06:39:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6184558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kafkas/pseuds/kafkas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>'I don't want this, for you. I don't want it.'</i><br/><i>'No,' he replied coolly, 'No, you've made it very clear what </i>you<i> want.'</i><br/><br/>au where Myrtle doesn't die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The narrative is replenished.

 

 

 

'You loved me - too?'

Gatsby was uncomprehending, I could see. Anything Daisy said or did from this moment on would be written off as something hysterical. When she fled, he tried to chase after her, and I had some trouble restraining him. Such was Gatsby's conviction that he believed he would be retrieving her rather than pushing her away forever. He struggled terribly against me. 

'Gatsby,' I soothed and, when that didn't work, ' _Jay_ ,' snapped in such a way that he was forced to look me in the eye. 

'Look at him - he's ready to blow,' Tom cried, but I could see that Gatsby's eyes had gone very still. 

'Jay,' I repeated, and felt his arms go limp beneath mine. Releasing him, I went over to the door and peered out into the hallway. 

'She's gone,' I said, then, 'Tom - why don't you go find her?' 

I could tell from the way he huffed past me that he didn't want to go, but he couldn't well refuse after vouching his love for her mere moments before. I waited until he was gone and then steeled myself. When I reentered the room Gatsby was standing where I had left him, one hand massaging the ring on his finger.

'Jay. Jay?'

He did not respond. I heard the hiss of Jordan's skirts as she stood up.

'Perhaps some drinks are in order...'  

'No,' he croaked, waving a hand at her as if disgusted by the very thought of whisky, 'No, I want...' His mouth hung open blankly. What _did_ he want, now that Daisy was fled from his life forever? 

'Sandwiches?' I suggested, and he shot me a glare. 

'Home, then.' 

We made our way slowly down to the lobby. Jordan was gripping my arm tightly, perhaps fearing the violence that had been so narrowly avoided before. When we exited into the muggy afternoon air, both Gatsby's Duesenberg and Tom's blue coupé were still in their respective parking spaces. 

'He's probably taken her somewhere quiet,' Jordan suggested, and I heard my neighbour make a noise that could only be described as strangled rage. I inserted myself between them, in a vain attempt at avoiding any confrontation between the two of them. To lose one of his last, tenuous connections to Daisy would hurt him in the long run, I was sure. 

 

 

 

Eventually we decided that we should take the coupé so that Jordan might drop us off and continue on to East Egg. Gatsby didn't seem fazed at the prospect of leaving his Duesenberg with Tom. He didn't seem fazed at the prospect of anything. As we unloaded ourselves from the front seat and bid Jordan goodbye, he was as quiet and agreeable as one of Tom's hunting dogs. We watched the coupé disappear into the cooling night until it was nothing more than a blue speck flickering amongst the marsh trees. 

I noticed with some discomfort that Gatsby was shaking, almost imperceptibly - from the cold or from the despair I did not know. I let him stew in his thoughts for a moment, then cleared my throat. 

'I suppose you'll be turning in for the night, then?' 

'She'll call,' he said, and then started off across the lawn. After a moment of deliberation, I followed.

The house, I remember, was pitch dark. As we came up onto the patio, a lantern was lit, stunning in its sudden intensity. The majordomo, Herzog, was standing silhouetted by one of the columns, a little luger in his hand. 

'Who is it?' he said coldly. 

'It's only Nick and I,' Gatsby replied in a hoarse whisper. 

The gun was lowered, along with my heart rate. Herzog gestured calmly for me to pass him, which I did, nearly slipping on the tiles in my panic. I heard Gatsby demand a tea set to be sent up to his study, and slowed to let him overtake me. I scarcely knew my way around the sprawling manor in the daytime - cloistered in darkness I was at an utter loss. 

Gatsby's footsteps rang out with military evenness on the hardwood floor. A part of me wanted to reach out and grip his arm, as Jordan had done for me in the Plaza. But that strength, his mystical solidity, was gone. He was a lean thing, and I kept my distance as he opened the door to his library.

'Help yourself to a drink, old sport,' he muttered. I don't suppose he realised there was not a drink's cabinet in sight. I sat down heavily in one of the high-backed leather chairs, watching with interest as he rifled through his bureau. A cloying drowsiness overtook me and I found my eyes drooping open and shut at an ever slowing pace. I fancy I was on the verge of sleep when Herzog came in with the coffee. Placing the tray on the table before me, I realised that it was the same ornate tea set Gatsby had had brought to my house a month earlier. 

Had it only been a month? I marvelled at the canonic nature of things; how one could start out so simply only to have everything grow cacophonous, and in such a short amount of time. I reached for the little espresso cup and downed it in one go. Gatsby was still at the bureau, still rifling. I swallowed around the bitter taste in my mouth. 

'What are you doing, Gatsby?' I whispered. He didn't hear me and so I repeated the question.  

'Getting my affairs in order, old sport.' 

'Your affairs?'

He held up a small leather booklet. It took me a moment to recognise it as a passport. 

'We're going to Europe together. A little inconvenient for me, what with my work, but it's what Daisy's always wanted...' 

I felt my heart clench. Looking for Herzog and finding him gone, I rose to my feet. 

'Gatsby.' He was frantically pulling the drawers from their frames. I closed my eyes. 'Jay, please.' 

''Please" what, old sport?' 

His tone annoyed me. It was hard to keep the edge out of my voice as I implored him to forget Daisy and focus on the here and now: the wild rumours that were circulating around him, Tom's blackmail, his business with Wolfsheim which I was certain was growing ever closer like a coin being spun around a bowl. But Gatsby would hear none of it. He and Daisy were going to run away together and everybody else was going to be left to pick themselves up in the wake of it - Tom, Pammy, Jordan, _me._

I kicked the lowest drawer shut and instantly regretted it. Gatsby rounded on me the way he had when I'd asked him about the money, only this time it was with intent. His hands shook in their fists. The set of his face said, _Hell, Nick, not you too._ I had wanted to brush the look away as easily as I had seen Daisy do it. A nod from her, a press of her hand, and he would yield just about anything. 

This angered me, although it would only occur to me later why. 

'Damn it, Jay -' I started, and he grabbed me by the arm - as I had seen Tom do before he slapped Myrtle. I struggled not to let my disappointment show. 

'So that's how it's going to be then?' I murmured, looking him in the eyes. 

'That's how it's going to be,' he replied. 

I wanted at once to take his face in my hands and press our foreheads together, as brothers might; as I had seen he and Daisy do on the patio, the sun shining bright through her dress. A gesture of apology. He must have sensed this in me because he abruptly relinquished his vice hold, which in turn allowed me to drop my eyes, and quieten my tone. 

'I don't want this, for you. I don't want it.' 

'No,' he replied coolly, 'No, you've made it very clear what  _you_ want.'

 _Ah_ , I had thought. _There it is_. I had often wondered if he had known. 

Looking up again, I found myself pinned to the sight of him. His staff had only drawn the curtains halfway, and what little light there was shuttered black and gold over his eyes. His mouth. He noticed me looking and inclined his head skyward, which did nothing to help. Now I was forced to look at the gentle shudder of his throat as he thought - well. I wish I could tell you what he was thinking. I pressed my lips to his Adam's apple and I heard him sigh. 

'Daisy -'  

'Daisy will call in the morning.' 

I was aware of how I sounded. I sounded wheedling, like Myrtle. I didn't care. He let me kiss him and it made me want to boast to Tom and his assertions that I had had the wool pulled over my eyes. This was mine; I wasn't pretending to be Daisy for him, and I wasn't drunk and compliant as I had been at the McKees' - this was for me. 

I can still remember the taste of him, and the way his mouth had fallen open with no sound emerging. A hand in my hair. Somebody moaning. Abstract, thoughtless things. Perhaps I was drunk. I can't - or I try not to - remember. 

Afterwards, after I had refastened my belt and regained a little of my dignity, I tried to reach for Gatsby's hand but he rebuffed me. I don't believe he was being cruel; he was embarrassed probably, and ashamed. He had not relieved himself for a long time and thus the brunt of the moaning had come from him. I could not mock him for it. Instead I said, 'Tom will come after you.'   

'I know.' 

'Even if she does choose you, he'll hit you with everything he's got. The bootlegging, the - the rumours. They'll all come back.' 

'She won't choose me.' He said the words so quietly that I could scarcely believe them at first. I brushed a hand up his arm and he let me.  

'She won't choose me... because she knows.' 

'Jay?' 

My neighbour tilted his head to meet gaze - and I was gone. I was as pliable and forgiving as he was with Daisy. Gatsby could have said anything in that moment and I wouldn't have cared. So he said the one thing he knew he could not. Not to anybody else. 

'You see, old sport... I'm the son of some very poor people from the Midwest.'  

 

 

 

He looked exhausted, when he had finished. I drained the other cup of espresso, which he had not touched, and shrugged. 

'It's a story.' 

'It's true.'

'I know. I just can't believe it.'

We were standing by one of the library's great, brass-framed windows now, and the morning sun was just begin to peak tentatively over the horizon. Birds were singing. It was _crisp_ , to borrow a phrase of Jordan's. Invigorating. Although I felt deflated. 

'Your turn,' Gatsby said, with a ghost of a smile. 

'What do you mean?' I turned to face him, knowing exactly what he meant, and leant against the wall. 

'How long?' 

'Good lord, what an odd question. Well... well, I don't know. You can't really tell with these sorts of things. New Haven, I suppose. Tom's boys.' 

'I meant with me.' 

I ran my tongue over the top of my teeth - a nervous habit. 

'Who says that I am?' 

'Nick, I've been chasing the same woman for five years. I'm uniquely qualified in these sorts of things.' 

The use of my name made my breath stutter in my chest, which was just tragic, really. An hour ago he'd had me pressed up against a bookshelf, and the slats were still indented into my spine. But still, I could not help the thin rasp that emerged from my mouth upon trying to answer him. Mercifully, he decided to let me alone, reaching instead into his pocket and drawing out a cigarette. 

 

 

 

 

Jordan came a few days later, when I was busy scrubbing some graffiti the local boys had drawn on one of Gatsby's stone benches. I did not notice her for a good few minutes, and only did because she had taken out her lighter and begun to play with it. I looked up and there she was, one hip cocked and dressed rather conservatively in a navy button up. Its gold buttons flashed so brightly that I had to squint. 

'Hello there,' she said, and came to kneel beside me. She read the graffiti with one eyebrow raised. '"SHIT." They're not very imaginative are they?'

'It gets the point across.'

'Where is he? I've brought him his car.' 

'That's very kind of you, and he's in town,' I replied, vaguely because I did not actually know. I imagined he was at the old Metropole with Wolfsheim. 

Jordan seemed to sense my dismay and brushed the hair from my forehead, feather light and with a somewhat maternal glance. 

'You haven't been sleeping have you Nick?' 

'No,' I replied, and turned away, feeling as if I might burst into tears. I was very well aware that with Daisy gone, my time with Gatsby was limited. He did not love me. He would find somebody else. I, however, would be left to clean up after him. And here I was: spending my weekend doing just that. It was laughable.

'You should come out to my place some time,' Jordan murmured, 'Aunt Sigourney misses you.' She was twirling her lighter between her fingers, as I imagined she might a golf tee. Watching it glitter in the pearly, overcast light, I remembered what Gatsby had said to me that day in the library. 

After retrieving his cigarette, he had turned to me and said, with an air of finality, 'How about this, old sport? I won't tell yours and you won't tell mine. That sound like a deal to you?' 

'Yes Jay,' I had said. 

'Excellent.' 

With a grin he had pushed the cigarette between my teeth. It was meant to be an amused, conspiratorial gesture, but as tired and as lovelorn as I was it only came off as taunting. This tended to apply to a lot of the things Gatsby said and did. 

Back in the garden, Jordan was staring at me. 

'Nick.' 

'Hm?' 

'I was just asking you about Aunt Sigourney's?' 

I took a deep breath and rubbed my eyes. 

'Jordan - I would like nothing more than to join you for lunch today.' 

'Excellent.' Bounding to her feet, she proffered out a hand to help me up. I was suddenly frozen. I looked from her pale, blunted fingernails to the high brass windows of Gatsby's castle, and felt very torn. But I took the hand, in the end - I would always take the hand - and it is suffice to say that he broke my heart. 

God, how he broke it. 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Resounding consequences.

Things went from bad to worse. Tom paid off his debt to George Wilson and had the car delivered shining and virginal to him one Sunday morning. Incidentally, Myrtle took the train up to New York an hour later, and didn't return home until late that evening. She and her husband had decided to remain in the Valley of Ashes after all. 

Tom's assets once again secure, the Buchanans made a similar decision, resolving to remain in East Egg until things had "settled down between them." All this Daisy told me in a high and quavering voice, with that vitriolic gleam in her eye that said,  _Oppose me, I dare you._ I hadn't; I had smiled and thanked her for her time, exiting the house and promptly sicking up in one of her rosebushes. Bending over there with my hands on my knees, I felt a sudden and intense fury rush up inside of me, only to dissipate a moment later and to be replaced with my customary, tranquil distaste. But I remember being nauseatingly aware in that brief moment of what might possess Tom to hit somebody. 

When I returned to West Egg, Gatsby's house was as quiet and still as a tomb. This was several weeks after our little tryst in the library; though he had spoken to me little since then, I still found it in me to be scornful as I tied my boat to the quay. He had disappeared off to West Coast on an "errand," as Herzog had put it, and would not be returning for quite some time. I took a moment to stand and glare up at the castle, with all of its turrets and awnings, and hoped that my misery would translate like so many of his cross-country phone calls, all the way to sunny Los Angeles. 

 

 

 

My Finn had since returned, perhaps sensing somewhere in her strange Finnish mind that things were not entirely right at Castle Rackrent, and was always waiting for me with dinner when I came through the door. She was a spindly woman somewhere in her mid-sixties, who reminded me of my mother in a way that domineering women remind most men of their mothers. I could not say that I was entirely comfortable in her presence. Something in her face said that she had seen into my soul, and that it had come up wanting. 

That night after speaking to Daisy, I had gone out onto the veranda and attempted to read one of my books on economics, but my mind had wandered. Tearing a page from my notebook, I had absently begun to pen some stray thoughts down, and before I knew what was happening I had the beginnings of a letter composed before me. I can't say that I was at all proud of it, or that it was poetic, but I put it here in part because I know that it will give some insight into my thoughts at the time. 

" _Dear Jay,_ " I had written, and then decided that he would find the "dear" uncomfortable. " _Jay_ ," I had begun again, with the satisfying purpose of beginning a letter professionally, " _It has been almost a week since you left for Los Angeles and Long Island has been terribly quiet without you. Not to say that it has been exactly teeming with life as of late, but your presence here gave the place a certain vivacity._

_Jordan Baker sends her regards and hopes that the Duesenberg is performing up to your standards. She has a tournament coming up in November and was wondering if I might bring you - she says, 'if you are back by then.'_

_I do wonder when you will be back_  -" here, a pause, feeling as if I might be teetering on the edge of impropriety, " _\- because people are beginning to ask questions. A few of them know me from your parties and then a few more are journalists from the city. A lot of them think that you are dead... I too have to wonder if you are also, for all the times I have called and received no reply._ "This last part I crossed out and made sure was unintelligible beneath the ink. In its place I wrote, " _Daisy is here, by the way. She and Tom have decided to stay in East Egg after all._

_Hope all is well with you and that you have found whatever it is you are looking for over there._

_Cordially I am, etc.,_

_Your neighbour Nick._ "  

After finishing I tore the letter up and burnt it in the ash tray. I couldn't help but be reminded of Gatsby's own letter to Daisy, all those years ago, as I watched those snowy pieces of paper curl and blacken, and then drift up into the air as if they had never been paper at all. 

 

 

 

I saw a lot of Jordan after that lunch at her aunt's. I suppose she was feeling a little sorry for me, in her own, coldly amused way. I went to four of her tournaments and she cheated in three of them, although she would later site the foggy conditions as the cause of my misjudgement. We slept together, for the first time, in late September. I remember being surprised that we hadn't done it sooner. Most of the girls I had gone with, I put to bed quickly and with little emotion. Jordan I felt I would have to impress. 

I didn't. It was a stiff and dispassionate affair - no motivation on either side. Afterwards, she rolled over and lit a cigarette in a way that made me feel quite womanly, because it was such a mannish thing to do. 

'Well, I suppose that's that,' she'd murmured, and flicked her lighter open and shut rhythmically. 'Now we can agree to be friends.' 

'Yes, quite,' I replied, and she looked at me in such a way that made me wonder if I hadn't shouted somebody else's name - his name - in the middle of it all. I do not know if I did. As with most things, I have chosen not to remember. 

 

 

 

Three days later, Gatsby's manor was a bustling hub of activity once more. Though he had not yet returned from Los Angeles, a convoy had been sent ahead of him. I watched from the kitchen as white van after white van drew up at his door, and great boxes of flowers and pastries were unloaded, wedding-like. It was as if, because of his brief lapse of faith, Gatsby felt he needed to renew his efforts tenfold. I remember reassuring myself dully that it wouldn't work, and turning back to my breakfast. Daisy had seen the truth of his great fortune and no amount of flowers would change that, I was sure.  

I began to hang around Tom again, whose newfound dedication to keeping his wife made me feel reassured. We went riding together and talked about nothing in particular, even venturing into the city once to see Myrtle. Things began to feel as they had in New Haven, when he would drag me from fraternity to fraternity in the hopes of meeting a girl, or starting a fight. Possibly both. 

Gatsby came back. I stubbornly avoided him for the first few days, until all of a sudden he was at my door and asking for a cigarette, sharing his plans with me. He looked exactly as he did when he had came by to tell me he was leaving; uncomfortable, but not quite sympathetic enough to be apologetic about it.  

When he had exhausted himself on the subject of Daisy, he awkwardly presented me with a snakeskin belt and matching wallet.

'The clasp is silver,' he'd explained, 'and the notches on the belt are solid gold.' 

'That's - you didn't have to.' 

'Nonsense, old sport. It's the least I could do.' 

We smiled falteringly at each other, and I wanted to bury my face in my hands and groan. I longed for what we'd had in the beginning - a simple, easy friendship. Things were so convoluted now and I didn't know what I could do, what I could say. Gatsby seemed to think the same, for he excused himself a moment later, claiming that he had business to attend to in New York. I watched him retreat across the lawn and realised I was glaring again. I fancied I would have a permanent line between my brows before the year was out. 

It wasn't that I was angry with him, or that I didn't still love him - and I use that word now, because it is the only one there is: I loved him. I was at my wit's end, was all. I had tried everything to draw his attention away from Daisy but even in his most carefree moments I imagined I could still see the green light pulsing palely behind his eyes. (Tom had taken it down, incidentally, after Gatsby had revealed its existence to him). 

It wasn't that I was angry with him - but that I felt _innumerable_ things in his presence, and he in turn gave me nothing at all. It was rather like shouting down into a well and hearing only the dull thump of your voice as it hit the bottom. There was never any echo.

 

 

 

I attended Pammy's birthday at Tom's behest. Daisy rarely spoke to me anymore, perhaps suspecting that I had aligned myself against her. Tom didn't seem to mind - he'd never particularly minded about his wife - but Pammy's increasing bouts of depression were leaving him worried. I do suspect he might have loved her. 

But I saw Pammy and she seemed as bright and gay as ever. We took turns around the outer rim of her little tea party, babbling away to each other, and I found my hand reaching up every now and then to adjust her hat. It was only when I asked her why she did not join the other children that she grew solemn and stilled at my side. 

'Pam?' I'd asked, and she had hugged my leg desperately. It was the first sign of affection I had been shown in months and I felt at once that I might weep. 

I did not press the issue with her. The children Tom had frantically arranged were those of his polo teammates; boys mostly - rowdy, confrontational children that seemed intent on getting a rise out of wilting flowers like Pammy. A rise that would not come. 

This made me feel sorry for Tom all of a sudden - a feeling that I recognised as erroneous but failed to quell down. Surely these boys were not the products of their fathers, who were largely absent, but of their strange and affectionate mothers. I could not help thinking that if Tom had tried a little harder and actually took part in the raising of Pammy, things would have turned out differently for the both of them. 

You see, the true tragedy was not that Tom loved his daughter, but that he had realised this too late.  

I squeezed her soft, pink palm in my larger, darker hand. 

'Come on,' I said, 'We'll ask Auntie Jordan if she's got any dresses for you to try on.' 

 

 

 

After the birthday party I got drunk with Tom and he confided in me calmly that he and Daisy hadn't slept together in over a year. With a great sigh I had heaved myself up off of the parlour couch and taken my leave. I did not want to be privy to any more secrets. 

Later that evening, I looked again up from securing my boat to the pier, and this time saw Gatsby standing on the promenade above his beach. He cut a heroic figure, blackened almost to silhouette against the night sky. I was feeling particularly literary that night and imagined that he was not Jay Gatsby but some distant, mythological creature of old. Then I began to glare again.

 _Damn it Jay,_ I'd wanted to shout,  _Throw her over. Throw her over and come be with me._

I did not. Instead I mounted the stairs and went to join him. 

'It's a pleasant evening,' he remarked, without turning away from the Sound, 'Tad cold.' 

'Winter's settling in.' 

'I was thinking of hosting a party on Christmas Eve but I haven't decided yet. Seems a little ostentatious, don't you think? Presumptuous? People will be - busy...' I knew what he was trying to ask.

I stuck my hands in my pockets and said, 'Pammy's birthday party was today. You do remember who Pammy is, don't you?' 

'Old sport, I'd prefer if we didn't.'

He looked at me, coolly, and I found myself unable to meet his gaze. I spotted at area slightly above his head and started again. 'There will be nobody to raise her, you know. Tom will be too busy, and Jordan has a career to maintain. But I don't suppose you really care about that, do you? You've never much cared for anything.' 

Though I spoke calmly, I reminded myself of one of those spurned wives left behind at his parties. _You promised!_ rang a shrill voice inside of my head. I took him by the arm and hissed, 'I won't raise her. But you'd like that, wouldn't you? Then you could have Daisy all to yourself -'

He shoved me away. It was a sharp, efficient shove, as one might dispose of a drunkard. I staggered on the wet grass, feeling shocked. I'd never seen him lash out at anyone before. He was looking at me very coldly, his shoulders squared slightly higher than usual and one arm drawn back - ready for a fight. 

'God, Jay,' I said, choking on my own laughter. Did he really think I would hurt him? 

I left him like that, unable to summon the energy to oppose him any further. I do no not know for how long he stayed there, watching me retreat across the beach.

I could not sleep that night, my mind teaming with everything I had wanted to say to him. That I was tremendously sorry about a lot of things, but not this. That he'd hurt me when he had gone to Los Angeles and that no amount of belts and wallets could make up for that. That he was being selfish. 

 _You're a fool,_ I'd wanted to say.  _You're a damned fool and if you continue on like this someone's going to get killed._

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conspiracy is revealed.

 

 

 

Come Christmas Eve, Gatsby's manor was lit from top to bottom in golden light. I had slept most of the weekend away, hoping halfheartedly that the whole affair would pass me by, but as always I was awakened by the sound of Gatsby's tri-tune car horn as his guests sped round the drive. I don't know why I thought he would listen to me when I disparaged his plans. He'd never listened to me about anything before. 

Despite my mood, I went. I found myself inexorably drawn to his parties, which promised such bright and exciting things. It was rumoured that tonight's fireworks display would rival even the one he had orchestrated the night we'd met, though I found this hard to believe. But Gatsby would always exceeded my expectations.  

When I entered the ballroom, I saw Jordan and her group of admirers and immediately blanched. Things had never quite been the same between us ever since we had tried to further our relationship. But I soon relaxed under her cool humour, and even found the courage to slip a hand around her velvet clad waist.

'Ah,' she said, immediately plucking it off, 'Best not, dearest. I'm a kept woman now.'

I snorted, and then realised she wasn't joking.

'Christ, Jordan - _who?'_

She directed my gaze towards a pretty, shy looking fellow, whose expression could only be described as heartbroken - mouth agape, eyes wet. I realised belatedly that he was looking at us. 

Jordan explained to me in careful tones that he was Italian and that his family owned a golfball brand. He was a little younger than her and absolutely terrified that she was going to leave him, often keeping a close eye on her at these sorts of events. I found this piece of information extremely reassuring. I was glad that she had found someone who was genuinely sweet on her. The boys Jordan usually went with never quite seemed to deserve her. 

Feeling pleased on her behalf, I retreated once more into the calming anonymity of the crowd. I watched as the Italian boy crossed over to Jordan and tried to be domineering, only to fail miserably. Jordan laughed her barking little laugh and bent down to kiss him, as which point the boy began to smile radiantly. It was a heartening sight, but I found myself unable to smile. I did not feel jealous of Jordan's attention, but felt certain that I had missed a sort of opportunity. I could have married Jordan and - my own proclivities aside - I felt sure that she would not have minded. My parents could finally breathe a heavy sigh of relief. Another worry could be banished from their thoughts; that even though their son was a cynic, and without ambition, and without religion, he was not - _that_.

Another, more mournful thought: that Gatsby would never let me fix his tie as Jordan's boy was doing now; that I would never be allowed to smooth my fingers over his lapels, or perhaps go in for a kiss. And that even if he did let me, he would not  _want me to._ That was was made me toss and turn at night, what made my heart ache. The terrible knowledge that I was  _unwanted,_ not just by Gatsby but by so, so many.

With this in mind I ventured out into the garden in search of the drink's table, and was immediately assaulted by Verdi's  _Requiem._ As if in direct accordance with this, it was at that exact moment that I spotted my neighbour. He stood at the estrade overlooking the pool and was deep in conversation with - not Daisy, as I had initially thought - but a small, languid looking man in white flannels. As I drew nearer I recognised him as one of Wolfsheim's bunch, not because I had met him before but because of the way he held himself, as if he did not wish to be seen. 

Standing as close as I thought I could manage, I heard Gatsby say: 'Well, if Kisro's not coming, I'm going to speak to him myself,' and the man in white squawk something in unintelligible terror. As he was pulling Gatsby away, I met the latter's gaze and froze. It was not the look of a man who I had not a week ago slighted in the worst way possible. It was a look of pleading. It was a look that said, _Please, old sport, not now._

I was about to call out to him when I felt a strong hand on my shoulder. 

'Nick!' 

'Tom,' I exclaimed, letting myself be pulled around. He was drunk, that was the first thing I noticed. He was still in his polo clothes and his face was red. 'Tom,' I said, 'What are you doing here?'

His eyes were flashing about erratically, searching.

'Where is he?'

'Who?'

' _Gatsby._ ' 

'Gatsby,' I repeated, in an astonished half whisper. I stole a glance at the estrade behind me and found that my neighbour and Wolfsheim's man had disappeared. I turned back to Tom, who was stuffing a hot canapé into his mouth. 

'He's not here,' I lied, calmly. 

'Not here?' 

'Since the last party he's been hiding up in his room -' Tom started towards the manor but I placed myself in front of him, a hand at his shoulder. 'You won't get far. The steward, Herzog - he keeps a man stationed outside at all times. With a gun.'

Tom's eyes narrowed. Despite our shaky camaraderie, he was still finding it hard to trust me in the wake of Daisy's betrayal. It took him a good moment or two, then he deflated. 

'Jesus,' he croaked, running a hand through his strawy hair, 'You've got him all figured out, haven't you?' 

The orchestra was by then reaching new and unbearable volumes. I led Tom over to the knoll separating Gatsby's lawn from mine and sat him down on one of the stone benches. 

'Tom,' I said, again, 'Why are you here?' 

He was lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. 

'Do you know that - do you know that he  _asked_ her to come here? Didn't even have the decency to invite the both of us - he  _called_ her -!' He took a deep drag and nearly choked on the smoke. Through smarting eyes, he squinted up at me, and his voice took on a low and dangerous edge. 'D'you know what the worst thing is, Nick? She was _considering_ it. I caught her in the mirror trying on dresses, humming to herself. She and Jordan were gonna sneak over when I'd gone for my evening ride. But the horse threw a shoe and I had to come back early...' 

I could see then that he had come to start a fight. His body had the same thrumming intensity as it had at New Haven, only now it was worse because this wasn't just some petty fight on the quad, this was his _marriage_. Not his wife - never his wife - but a marriage all the same. His image. His identity. I knew then that he would kill Gatsby if he ever got his hands on him. I could see him holding Gatsby head down in his pool, or strangling him behind a bush somewhere. My shame over abetting the man suddenly disappeared in the face of Tom's fury. I had _saved Gatsby's life._

'Tom,' I said, and he looked up at me, 'Go home.' 

Hom nodded once, curtly, and sucked in air wetly through his nose. 

'Home,' he muttered, then abruptly let out a low whine and began to sob. Embarrassed and extremely unsettled, I returned to the party in search of a drink. 

 

 

 

For the whole night I could not relax. Tom's murderous pursuit of Gatsby and Gatsby's own conversation with the man in white haunted my thoughts, and a rather premonitory feeling overtook me. I was certain that something bad was about to happen. I sought out Jordan again, who was by then engaged in a very earnest conversation with the Italian boy and a famous ballerina in the parlour. I made sure to drag her off in a way that assured the boy that I was not some rival suitor, but that I was actually very angry. 

The first thing I demanded was if she and Daisy had planned on coming there. 

'Me and  _Daisy_?' she had repeated, bewildered, 'Lord, Nick, _no_. She doesn't want anything to do with this place.' 

'Tom said you tricked him. That you two were going to leave while he was out riding and that Daisy was trying on dresses.' 

Jordan rolled her eyes. 'Oh, those were dresses she had ordered for the holiday. Some darb designer from Paris. Tom's reading too much into things.' 

'And the phone calls?' 

Jordan distractedly picked up a finger-bowl glass from a passing tray. 

'What phone calls?' 

I searched her face for any sign of deceit and realised that she truly did not know what I was talking about. Feeling suddenly very tired, I too grabbed a glass. 

'Have you seen Gatsby?' I asked after taking a large gulp. 

'Well sure, he just came by half a minute ago. Said to send you up to the library if I saw you. Said he wants to ask you a favour, again.' 

Of course it was a favour. Sensing that the rest of the night was about to go downhill, I leaned in and kissed Jordan on the cheek, which had become our way of apologising to each other. I fancy that I heard the Italian boy gasp softly from across the room.

'Shall I wait for you?' she asked, a twinkle in her eye. 

'No,' I replied glumly, 'It's not  _that_ kind of favour.' 

 

 

 

My trip through the bowels of Gatsby's manor was only interrupted by the troubling figure of Herzog at the elevator door, startling a gasp out of me. I stammered out an excuse, before realising that he was probably well aware of why I was there. If his smirk was anything to go by, that is. Complacently, I let him lead me in the right direction and thanked him when he deposited me at the end of a long marble hallway.  

Beyond the bounds of the party, the manor was as quiet and dark as it had been when he was in Los Angeles, and when Daisy had been there. Only brief murmurings, muffled gasps, hinted at anything exciting behind the many doors I passed on my way to the library. Rounding the corner, I found that I had once again reached the familiar door that separated me from whatever favours Gatsby was about to demand. Bringing up my fist, my knuckles had barely brushed the wood before his singing, silver voice called out, 'It's open.' 

And it was. In my drunken state, the transition from light to dark, from marble to plush shag carpet, was a little too much for me to handle. I stumbled, and felt a sweat break out across my neck at the sensation of a fire somewhere nearby.

 _The last time I was here,_ I thought,  _it was too hot for a fire._

Gatsby's voice sang out again, 'I'm down here.'

Leaning over the balustrade that separated the fictions from the legal documents, I saw Gatsby reclining at his desk in the sunken sitting room he called his office. His tie was undone and I could make out from where I stood a faint triangle of tanned skin. 

I swallowed dryly, and descended. 

'How are you liking the party then, old sport? Is it appropriate?' His eyes were bright and hopeful. Despite myself, I began to smile. 

'Oh, it's wonderful. The whole city must have turned out.'

'Yes, I thought so too.'

He sounded nervous. I realised that he was looking over something under his bureau lamp. Angling my head a bit, it revealed itself to be a newspaper. Seeing my interest, Gatsby flipped the thing around. 

'Do you know who this man is, old sport?' 

I looked at the headline benignly. " _MORRIS ELSNER FOUND DEAD IN CAR_ ,"it read. Underneath was a picture of a balding, middle-aged man shaking hands with a figure I vaguely recognised. It was a presidential, swearing-in sort of hand shake, I thought. 

'No idea.'

'He's the president of the Los Angeles police commissioners. Well - _was_. He's dead now, in case you couldn't tell.' 

I felt my smile shrink down a couple of notches. 

'How... how did he die?' 

The worry in my tone must have been palpable because Gatsby laughed and patted my arm. 

'It's quite alright, old sport. He died of an aneurysm last April, a little while before _you_ arrived here, actually...' With a distracted air, he rose to his feet and began to search his pockets. On instinct, I drew out a packet of cigarettes and handed them to him. He thanked me, then paused, looking at the packet. 

'Sobranies?' 

'They're Jordan's.' 

'Ah.' He lit up and took a few short, nervous puffs, as Tom had in the garden. I'd only ever seen him this agitated once before - that day in the Plaza. The uncomfortable, premonitory feeling returned. 

'Gatsby,' I said, '... Who's Kisro?'  

'Pardon, old sport?' 

'Kisro. Who is he?' 

Through a haze of pastel smoke I saw Gatsby's expression harden a little. It was an expression I knew well - it occurred whenever I was about to be lied to. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished. Gatsby strode quickly back to his desk and jabbed a finger at the young man shaking hands with Elsner. 

'That's him.' 

And so it was. Peering at the caption beneath the picture, I read out loud, '"Inspector Herman Kisro awarded Medal of Valour for series of arrests at Easter Philharmonic."'

'Bootleggers,' Gatsby supplied, 'All of them.'

I could see where this was going. 'Jay, are you in some kind of trouble?' 

' _Trouble_ , old sport? No, no, not at all. It's just that, well - Commissioner Elsner and I had a sort of understanding, you see? And now that he's dead and Kisro's taken over, things have gotten... difficult for Wolfsheim's boys down on the West Coast. They've been impeded.' 

It was then that it all clicked. The trip to Los Angeles, the flowers and the cakes, the man in white, _this very party._ It wasn't for Daisy. 

I felt very dizzy all of a sudden and wished Gatsby would open a window to let the smoke out.  

'Jay,' I said, hoarsely, 'Are you trying to bribe Commissioner Kisro?' 

'I wouldn't say bribe.' 

Again, that lying expression. 

' _Jay_ _._ ' 

'He's going to come after me, Nick!' my neighbour suddenly blurted. Then he clamped a hand over his mouth and fisted it there, filled with regret. I got to my feet.

'This is because of the - the drug stores, isn't it?'

He nodded, voice muffled behind his fingers. 'After Tom found out, I thought it would be best to siphon everything through our stores down west, at least until things calmed down. But somebody must have let something slip because now Kisro's threatening to - to bring out receipts. People will know about my past, I - I'll be ruined.' He had begun to shake terribly and I drew him to me firmly, as Tom's boys at New Haven had done after a particularly bad football game. 

'That's not true,' I murmured, and I felt him go slack. 

'Yes, yes I know, old sport, but... Well, I was rather hoping you'd provide me with a little help on that matter.' 

There it was. The favour. I drew away and he looked me square in the eye, confidence restored. 

'Kisro was supposed to come tonight - that's what this whole thing has been for, old sport. To get into his good books. But he's a monk, Kisro. He's completely ascetic. He's refusing to listen to me on all fronts, just as I know he'll refuse to listen to any of Wolfsheim's men. A meeting's been arranged but Wolfsheim and I have been arguing day in, day out about who we can send. Kisro will want somebody he can trust. Somebody who doesn't stink of "the business." And nobody fits the bill except for -'

'Me,' I finished, on a sigh, 'Jay, I -'

'It's just the matter of the bribe, old sport, like you said. Any price to shut him up. Think of it as an auction.'

'It's not that I don't understand, Jay. It's that I don't think I'm the right man for the job. I - I can't even haggle for antiques without seizing up.' 

'Nonsense,' he scoffed, 'I've put a lot of thought into this - you're the perfect man for the job.' 

I'm not proud to say I flushed under his flattery, but to my credit I did resist him for a good half hour. When I had finally conceded to meet with Herman Kisro, Gatsby was once again sat behind his desk, as if all of his cajoling and adulation now called for some strict professionalism. He informed me that the meeting was to be held at Delmonico's in Manhattan, and that I would not be using my real name. Some disturbingly authentic credentials were supplied to me, with my photograph already printed over most of them. Negating to ask where Gatsby had come into possession of this last item, I asked for a cigarette. 

As he was lighting it, Gatsby said, 'If you do this, Nick, I will be eternally grateful. Anything you desire - anything at all - will be yours.' 

Looking at his eyes, which were now hooded, and at his tongue, which he had left strategically poked between his teeth, I knew that I was being seduced into this. I had been since the moment I had stepped into the too warm library and abandoned my coat. Any good humour I then felt towards him quavered and vanished - only a definite feeling of humiliation and that constant, unwavering affection remained. 

'Have you been calling Daisy?' I demanded, and I sounded shrill even to my own ears. 

Gatsby blinked at me, façade slipping. 

'Daisy?' 

'Tom said she's been getting phone calls.' 

'I... I wouldn't know anything about that, old sport.' 

'Jay -' I pinched the bridge of my nose, '- I never lie to you. Please offer me the good courtesy of doing the same.'

There was a long pause and then, spoken barely above a whisper, 'I never say anything.' 

'No.' I shook my head wearily. 'No, I suppose just listening to each other breathe is enough for the two of you.' 

I went and picked my coat up off of the high-backed chair, and began to take my leave. It was when I was halfway up the stairs that Gatsby called after me. 

'You will meet with Kisro, won't you?' 

I would. Gatsby knew I would - he only had to say _jump_ and I would respond, _how high?_

His asking of the question seemed sadistic to me, so I left the library without a word, letting the door slam shut behind me. I sought out Jordan one last time and found her gone, along with her Italian lover. When I returned to my cottage, the front door was ajar. At first fearing burglars or rampant partygoers, I picked up the heavy marble ashtray from the front porch and held it aloft. But it was only a new suit, left neatly pressed on my bed, and a note written in that familiar, elegant script. 

" _Really appreciate this, old sport. Will have driver come round and pick you up on Tues. Remember: don't be too gentle with our commissioner._

_Sincerely, &c, _

_JG."_

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amory Blaine and the vicissitudes of bootlegging.

 

 

 

I spent the few days leading up to my meeting with Kisro in nearly paralytic terror. As was always the case with Gatsby, his lofty promises, tainted by my own childish fantasies of love, quickly melted away to the cold, hard reality of the matter. I was involved. In the criminal underworld. Thoughts of my mugshot splashed across the front page of the  _Journal_ pervaded my mind, and worse still - thoughts of my body, lying cold and dead at the bottom of the Hudson River. The crux of my terror was not in the thought of going undercover and attempting to bribe a policeman. The crux of my terror was the thought of what might happen to me if I failed Wolfsheim. And I was certain even Gatsby could not protect me from  _that._

 _Amory Blaine._ That was to be my name. I was still mouthing it to myself when Jordan appeared on my doorstep, two hours before I was due to be picked up.

'Can I come in?' she asked, in that affronted tone of hers. The tone that suggested it was not _I_  that was at an inconvenience but she _,_ my visitor. 

Quite plainly, I told her no, and that she could come back next week when "things were a little less chaotic at work." Raising her eyebrows, her mouth curling in on itself, she left, wrists held aloft as if she were carrying a bridal train. I am certain that she knew that I was up to something suspicious. Jordan, a liar and a cheat by trade, had a talent at spotting those same traits in other people. I imagine she was a little disappointed in me. 

Or perhaps - and again, this was the worser option still - it was what  _drew her to me._

After this, I fixed myself a quick breakfast of half an apple and a hardboiled egg, but ended up botching the latter so badly that it was almost pulverised in my attempts to break the shell. So there I sat, gripping the tablecloth, unable to eat, until the clock struck twelve. Herzog was due to pick me up in half an hour. 

I had picked out a good suit to wear as Amory. A suit that I had no other reason to wear - Tom having picked it out years ago and forced it upon me, I not being overly fond of it - and that could have feasibly been worn by a gangster. It was a terrible shade of saffron, garish, with black pin stripes; subtly clinched at the waist in a way that reminded me of an unhappy wasp or hornet. It was just as I was picking out a tie that could somehow bring the whole affair together that Gatsby appeared at my window, immaculate as always. I found this uniquely annoying, and took a moment to sneer to myself about it as he circled the house and came in through the front door. 

In his hand he had another snakeskin wallet, this one yellow as if he had coordinated with my wardrobe. For all I knew he might have. 

'I thought that you might like a prop, considering that the Asprey was so fine.' He handed it over with a nervous flicker or a smile.  _Bless his heart,_ I'd thought, spitefully. That Gatsby even had the nerve to act the part, as if he was anything but gleeful for my involvement in this, made my blood boil. 

'Forgive me, old sport,' he'd continued, 'I wanted to see you in person before Herzog came to collect you.' 

'Well it's the least you can do,' I'd muttered, and saw him flinch. 

Not regretting this at all, I gestured to my tie case. 

'Any thoughts?' 

Gatsby hummed and hawed for a moment before picking out a dark piece Jordan had gifted me, with gold patterning.

'It matches your eyes,' he'd murmured, more to himself than to anyone in particular. And damn him, damn me, damn it all - I still found it within myself to stammer when I said: 

'Tie it for me?' 

He approached me congenially. We had played this game before on a number of occasions, in which I would try to be angry and fail miserably. Gatsby was doubtless privy to all of my contradictions by then; that I am repulsed by conceit and yet so open to receiving people's secrets; that I take part in so many sordid affairs and yet continue to attest vehemently to my own moral backbone. He must have been disgusted. So it was with a sense of great shame that I let him continue his long seduction of me - the wallets, the ties, the flattery - all the while knowing that he wanted no part in and that it would wind up going nowhere. 

This feeling, coupled with all of my rages and affections, sent a sudden, hot spike of lust through me. Just as Herzog could be heard crunching across the driveway in the Rolls, I pulled Gatsby up by his lapels and kissed him hard, on the mouth. Gatsby made a loud, shocked sound, and I tasted copper _._ When I pulled away, both of our mouths were slick and red. He'd bitten me.  _Ah hah!_ I'd thought. I had made him do that. Gatsby's cheek was resting against mine. 

'Herzog will have some things to say to you, about the - the money,' he rasped. He was gripping one of my arms very tightly. 

'Then I shall have to listen carefully,' I replied. 

 

 

 

Herzog briefed me on what I was to do when meeting with and talking to Kisro. It was a long drive from West Egg to Manhattan, and most of what he said went completely over my head. What I remember, I write down for posterity's sake, in the hope that future generations will read this and be dissuaded from a life of crime: 

_Always be the last to sit down. This will put your man in a position of disadvantage._

_By no means refer to yourself by name. The more forgettable you are, the better._

_Never show any hesitation when naming a number. He sees that hesitation, and he knows you ain't gonna give him shit._ (' _Is_ there a cut off point?' I had responded to this, and Herzog had rolled his eyes. 'You let us worry about that,' he said. 'But surely there's a limit to -' 'Kid,' Herzog took a deep drag on his cigarette, 'We have expenses to cover just about anything.') 

And, finally:

_Never express your own opinions. Those are the opinions of Nick Carraway. You must be Amory Blaine._

During this brief sojourn, I remember being struck by how commanding Herzog had suddenly become, and how his accent had appeared to slip into something different, rougher. I had seen this transformation only once before - the night Gatsby and I had returned from the Plaza, and he had caught us with his luger. Reaching across to the passenger seat, he tapped the wallet Gatsby had given me. Opening it, I was amazed to find a chequebook, spanking new, filled with signatures that were neither mine nor Gatsby's. Herzog didn't explain this to me. I imagined I was meant to play along like any number of his workmates might.

I had no doubt that Herzog knew of my tendencies, and knew of what I and his master (charge?) got up to in the library. Doubtless there were some stereotypes to be had with this, so I appreciated that he did not in any way treat my like a woman. As he deposited me onto the pavement outside Delmonico's, I felt that I had been treated as nothing less than a real gangster, assertive and without any need of support. 

It was one of the rare instances in which I found myself liking him. 

Looking at the great, columned entrance to the restaurant, I swallowed dryly. Not in my whole time in New York had I been able to afford a meal at such a place - the closest I had come was a trip to a delicatessen's Gatsby had taken me on, where the salami was piled on so high I was unable to eat even a quarter of the sandwich they had given me. It occurred to me now that, like every kindness Gatsby had given me, this was just another tactic to assuage his guilt. With this in mind, I strode, scowling, to the door, and asked to be seated at a table for two under the name of Amory Blaine. 

This was to be the limit of my assertiveness for that day. 

 

 

 

Three quarters of an hour later, and Kisro still had not shown. Wedged between a farewell party for some retiring delegate and a swathe of young lovers at roundtables, I felt an intense sense of rejection, as if I had been stood up on a date. My waitress, a nervous woman in her early thirties, returned time and time again to ask if I was ready to order. Eventually I told her to fetch me a bottle of rye, surmising that Kisro was not going to show. When she had done this, and when I had made good work of the rye, a sausage-muscled maître d' appeared at my table and told me that if I was not going to order anything else, I would have to leave.  

Feeling malicious, I left a large tip using one of Wolfsheim's cheques. Staggering to my feet, I realised belatedly that I had not eaten that day and that the rye had gone straight to my head. I didn't care. 

 

When I exited the restaurant and came out onto the street, it had begun to rain and wet leaves were being blown about in the wind. It was then that I noticed Gatsby's bright yellow Duesenberg parked across the street, it's bonnet sizzling and popping in the cold. I felt my hands curl into fists, and strode out into the road without giving any care for incoming cars. I imagine Gatsby felt impelled to make some shocked exclamation about this, but seeing the look on my face decided it was better not to. I wrenched open the passenger-side door and ducked under the retractable roof. I was sopping wet and one of my legs was sticking out into the gutter, but I didn't move it. I wasn't planning on staying for long. 

'He didn't come.' 

'Yes, I rather gathered that, old sport, when his car didn't arrive.' 

'You've been following me this whole time?' 

'I thought it my duty.' 

'Your  _duty?'_

He nodded placidly, and I wanted to shake him. 

'Herzog had business to attend to and I thought you might need a ride home.' For the first time since I had sat down, he looked at me - really looked at me - and saw how angry I was. 'Oh, come now. Don't give me that - there's still tomorrow.' 

'No,' I snapped, 'No, there isn't tomorrow, Jay. I'm finished. I'm out.' I wiped at my eyes, viciously, with the back of my hand. 'I have never been more frightened in my  _life_ than I was sitting at that table. Not during the war, not even that day at the Plaza. And I'll be damned if you make me do it again.' 

A lock of hair, rain-slick, had fallen across Gatsby's forehead, giving his face a tentative expression. 

'Old sport, I  _knew_ you would feel that way, which was why I took it upon myself to wait here for you, in case anything went wrong.' 

'"Took it upon yourself,"' I laughed, coldly - and then, 'So you do admit that I was in danger?' 

I saw his eyes widen. I'd gotten him all panicked.  

'No! God, Nick, _no_. That's not what I meant at all.' 

'Or is it just that you don't think me capable? That, maybe, you didn't pick the best man for the job - but the easiest? Because that's what I am to you, aren't I? _Easy._ ' I was ranting, I knew, but I couldn't bring myself to stop. Standing up, my shoes soaked through to the socks, I told him, 'If I don't have your absolute faith in this, I don't want anything from you at all,' - when what I really wanted to say was: _Truly, after all this time - you still don't trust me?_

 _After everything I've done for you?_  

I knew that I was drunk, and that I would regret fighting with him later; but this just made me angrier - that I still cared deeply enough to feel any guilt over my actions. He was trying to persuade me back into the car. I told him to be quiet, and that if he said one more thing to me I would never forgive him. I saw his eyes harden. On another, calmer plane, I was aware that Daisy had said almost the exact same thing to him once, and to much the same effect. 

'I'll call you,' I croaked, and stepped back onto the pavement as he started the engine. 

'I'll call you,' I said, when what I really wanted to say was:  _I love you. Come back to me, forgive me - please, I love you._

 

 

 

I spent a long time in the city that day, and not once did I see a single soul I knew. I felt as if, in the rain, I could be anybody I so chose to be. I longed for the Midwest, for our quiet townhouse and those simple days spent cavorting about the fields, unencumbered by anything outside of my own head. I longed for an identity.

But most of all, I longed for home - not a discernible place or a space in time, but a thought, a feeling. I have only ever felt at home once in my life. In this narrative, that time has not come yet. When it does, I don't imagine that I shall have to point it out. You will know it, intrinsically, as I did.

You will know it and, I hope, you might mourn it. For me. 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A truce is reached

 

 

 

We came around to each other, in the end. Neither of us ever had much fortitude when it came to holding grudges - I daresay if the stakes weren't as high as they were, it might have been called a lover's quarrel. But they were, and it wasn't. Not really. For their to be quarrels there needs to first be lovers, and what Gatsby and I were  _was not_ lovers. There needs to be a certain degree of love on either side for that. 

It was Jordan who came in his stead, her blue chiffon dress making her look rather like one of his envoys. Today she did not ask to come in, or for me to come out, only, 'I hear you two had a little falling out.' 

I'd snorted into the coffee mug I was drinking from at the time. 

'Who told you that?' 

'Gatsby. Said you were screaming at him on the corner of William Street. Said you, "got a little bit excited."'

'Oh, so you -' I'd stumbled over my words as she pushed past me into the house, 'You two still speak, I take it?'

'I wouldn't call it that.' She had turned to me with a chilly smile. 'I'd call it, "Sitting in and pretending to be Nick Carraway - only prettier, and wearing a dress."'  

'Ah.' 

'He doesn't seem to believe we speak anymore.' 

'Yes.' Gatsby had a hard time believing any two people could exist in congress - outside of sexual congress, that is. Most especially a man and a woman.

'Which I suppose lends us quite the upper-hand...' Jordan continued, 'I can tell you all the dirty little secrets he's got on you.' Rather ungracefully, she flopped onto the couch, disappearing into the pile of Egyptian throw-pillows Gatsby had provided me with.  

'Oh, that won't be necessary.' But I rather wished she would. Instead, I approached and, looking down at her imperious, alpine face said, 'You're beau - I suppose he talks and eats and everything?' 

'Sisto is in Chicago right now, sorting through some business with his  _nonno,_ ' Jordan huffed, as if it were below her to speak of him. In that hawk-like way she had, she fixed me with her pale gaze. 'He wants to know if you'll come sailing with him this afternoon.' 

'Sisto?' 

Jordan glared at me. 

'Gatsby.' 

'Oh,' I'd replied weakly, 'No, Jordan, I don't think he wants that.' 

'Oh yes he does. And he made sure to tell me to tell you,' she appeared to focus very hard in recalling the words, 'That "Kisro is only in New York for another week, and that you only have three days to speak with him." But I'm entirely unaware of all that. Business connection of yours?' 

'Sort of. He works for my father,' I lied very easily. 

'Well!' Jordan skipped to her feet and, planting a cool kiss on my cheek, whispered, 'Do consider it, darling. I know he'd love to have you.' 

Something in the way she said it made me think she wasn't talking about the sailing trip. 

 

 

 

It turned out to be too windy that afternoon. Together we stood in the boat shed and watched the grey water prickle with rain, our hands stuffed in our pockets. He had on a slicker which he wore, like he wore everything, as if it had come from Savile Row. 

'I'm terribly sorry about this, old sport.' 

'It's fine, Jay. Really.' 

'I had a very nice red on the yacht too,' he added mournfully, 'From the Chateau Margaux. Belonged to Thomas Jefferson.'

'I think I saw a bottle of claret in the library.'

'What?' He blinked at me, uncomprehending. Then, 'We _should_ have coffee. It's too early for wine.' 

'Yes.' I relished in the opportunity to be sober with him.

'In the city?'

'Actually, I'd prefer it if we stayed here.' 

'Excellent.' He rubbed his hands together, and they creaked like old tarp. The rain was misting in his hair. 'Nick, you're not... terribly angry with me, are you?' 

'I am. But I suppose I'll get over it soon enough.' 

'Good. Good.' He didn't seem to be hearing me. 

We drunk coffee in the library, and afterwards the rain let up enough that we were able to take the croquet set out onto the lawn and putt about for an hour. After clearing a particularly difficult shot, Gatsby swung the mallet up over his shoulder and looked at me clearly for the first time that day, albeit with a rather timorous expression. 

'Listen old sport, about Kisro...' When I continued to play as if nothing had happened, he cleared his throat several times in quick succession and said, rather loudly, 'He'll be at Delmonico's again tomorrow, if you'd like to give it a - another shot.' 

'I actually had plans tomorrow. Tom's taking me out for lunch.' 

He looked at me as if I had just slapped him across the face. 'Now - now why would you want to go wasting your time with a man like that, old sport?' 

'I happen to like Tom. He's honest with me.' 

My point of reference hung in the air between us, a living thing, snarling and unpleasant. Gatsby seemed at once to draw to his full height; his tie seemed to fix itself, his collar do itself up. 

'I'd make it worth your while.' 

'Oh?' 

'I've been forced to sell some things, what with that business down in Los Angeles. Cars mostly. There's not a lot, but -'

'I don't want your money.' 

I tried to walk away but Gatsby pulled me back gently. 'Nick, Nick,' he said, in that placating tone he'd used in the Plaza with Daisy.  _We'll go back to Louisville, to your parents house -_ 'I know that I've hurt you, and that for whatever reason Daisy has hurt you too, but -'  

I pulled away roughly and in doing so slipped on the wet grass, landing on my back. I cursed quietly to myself, and Gatsby seemed to find some degree of amusement in this. He had begun to smile, stupidly, as I clambered to my feet.  

'It needn't cause you any trouble Nick,' he said, and I attempted to glare at him. Then, all at once, I deflated. Suddenly I was too tired to argue, and he'd used my name. I brought a shaky hand up to my eyes, shielding them from the sun which suddenly to me seemed blinding.

'And it would be just - like before?' I mumbled. I saw Gatsby's smile disappear, then come back piece by piece as he spoke, like a lights display. 

'Yes Nick. Why, yes - just like before. In and out. You needn't be there for - for more than a minute, really.'

'And he won't know - who I am?'

'He won't know _anything about you._ ' 

I thought for a long moment - thought about refusing him right then and there and exiting his life forever, catching the next train back to New York and then onward further still, west. But I had no money, and no prospects back home, and wanted desperately to become somebody else - because it seemed to me in that moment that Nick Carraway had died somewhere along the way, that day in the Plaza, or even earlier still, at that first party. Something intrinsic about myself was missing. Gatsby seemed to only one who could bring it out in me. 

Suddenly, I understood exactly how he must have felt that night in Louisville with Daisy asleep in his arms. Torn in two. Ripped to shreds.

It's a curious thing, love.  

Sighing heavily, I let my hand come down. 

'Alright Jay,' I croaked, for what seemed like the hundredth time that month, 'Alright, Jay, I'll do it. I'll do it if you just... If you just stop this  _deluded fantasy_ of yours.' 

Gatsby nodded vigorously. 

'Oh! Yes, yes, yes, of  _course_ Nick. I'm long past that now. Long past it.' 

He grinned and put an arm around my shoulders, drawing me close. 

'Come,' he said, lasciviously, 'Let's get you cleaned up.'

 

 

 

Later that night, pillowed on what had to be the most voluminous bed I had ever slept in, I heard them talking. I liked to believe that I hadn't. That I was on the cusp of sleep and that my ears were playing tricks with my head. But I heard them, and I saw him, silhouetted in the light from the study, the mouthpiece of the phone angled away so that I might not see it.

'Yes,' he'd said, and then, in a quiet, persistent tone, 'Well yes, darling, I _know..._ ' 

There had been a long pause, filled with the distant sound of Daisy's voice, swooping in and out of the eaves of the high vaulted bedroom like a dove trapped inside of a church. I imagined I could see it, a shadowy thing flitting above the curtained, fourposter bed. When Gatsby returned, he did not sleep. He stood at the end of the bed from a long while, seemed to debate getting in, and then crossed over to the window. 

We were in a guest bedroom, and on the wrong side of the house to see the green light, should it have ever returned. 

I don't believe he noticed. 

 

 

  

Before I was due to go out the following day, Tom appeared on my doorstep. I saw him as I was crossing the lawn from Gatsby's, his figure indistinct in the early morning fog. As I drew closer, I saw that he was wearing a white cable-knit sweater, very fine, and a brand new set of brogues. He was staring at me with what seemed at the time to be intense distrust. I imagine that I looked a mess; my clothes were still muddy from my fall on the croquet lawn, and Gatsby's vague promises to send me a new set of flannels did little to console me. They were my favourite pants, and I imagine my disappointment showed on my face - Tom suddenly became indignant. 

'Well Jesus Christ, man, what's the matter?'

'Nothing, nothing.'

'Been to see him, have you?' He inclined his head sharply towards Gatsby's manor.

'I left some things there.' 

'Oh?' he said, at a high pitch, 'Oh, is that what you were doing? Is that what you were doing _really?'_

'Yes,' I replied, matching his indignity, 'Yes it was - now what do you want?' 

Tom seemed at once cowed. 

'We were meant to go out for lunch today,' he said in a quiet, grumbling tone, 'Myrtle wants you there. 'Says you make her feel "respectable."' 

I suppressed a groan, digging the heels of my palms into my eyes. I'd completely forgotten. 

'Tom -' I began, trying to placate him.

'She doesn't trust me anymore,' Tom continued matter-of-factly, 'Ever since that day in the apartment, she's been afraid of me. Not enough to leave me - _no_...' He waggled a finger gravely. 'No, she won't do _that_. But... she is afraid, Myrtle. Won't see me on her own anymore.' 

'Tom, something's come up at work.' 

'Yeah,' he chuckled wetly, 'Sure it has. Sure it - look, Nick - I thought you were better than this.' 

'Oh?' 

'At the Plaza - you saw what he did, what he said. And - well,' he gave me a stiff, uncomfortable grin, 'I've never claimed to agree with your - your _lifestyle,_ Nick, but surely you must see  _what he is._ ' The pitch of his voice had reached a new level of hysteria and I drew back, suddenly afraid. I had held no illusions about our time together at New Haven. I knew he must have seen something, or heard something suspect. But to hear my secret fears so plainly vocalised came as a shock to me. 

Tom grinned wretchedly. 

'Yes, that's got you scared, hasn't it? D'you think he loves you, Nick? Is that what you've got into your head?' 

'No,' I said, swallowing thickly, 'No, you've got it all wrong, Tom. This isn't about Jay.' 

Tom let out a dry, honking laugh. 

'God! Do you even hear yourself? " _Jay_."' He turned his eyes towards the manor once more, moustache quivering faintly with a barely suppressed rage. 'He's got you all fooled, hasn't he? Thrown dust in all your eyes...' 

'Tom, I've got to go now.' 

'Yeah, yeah. You run along.' He waved me away, as if this were his property and not mine. I refused to say anything more, or to glance back as I walked away from him, but once safely back inside the cottage I risked a peak through the venetian blinds in my lounge room. And there he stood, proud as some conquerer of old, hands on his hips. I could only thank God that Gatsby had left early that morning, to arrange things in the city with Kisro. 

I could only imagine the fate that might have befallen him should he have chanced upon Tom that particular morning. 

  

 

 


End file.
